


Paranoia

by Eleanor_Fenyx



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Avett Brothers, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Drug Abuse, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Paranoia in B Major, Sherlock AU, Song fic, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleanor_Fenyx/pseuds/Eleanor_Fenyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Song fic using lyrics from 'Paranoia in B Major' by the Avett Brothers.<br/>At University, Sherlock gets into some pretty bad habits that carry on into his adult life, where John enters the picture and completely changes things for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paranoia

_I keep tellin’ myself, that it’ll be fine. You can’t make everybody happy all of the time._

Sherlock ambled out of his room and down the hallway, dreading going down to breakfast. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but he was actually hungry for once and he didn’t have any food in his room, leaving the cafeteria as his only remaining option.

Sherlock hated socialising with his classmates. He could never understand what they wanted from him. They asked him to figure stuff out about them, to deduce things about them, and they treated it like it was a game, like they actually wanted to hear what he had to say. And Sherlock liked to be heard when he was being clever. But then everything always went wrong, he would do what they asked him to and then they’d all get so angry and start insulting him. It was like he could never win. On the one hand, he was only doing what they’d asked him to do, but on the other if he stayed silent so they wouldn’t get angry they would just get angry anyway and start taunting him anyway. It was all so confusing.

Sherlock went into the cafeteria late enough that everybody was already there and he was grateful that at first everybody seemed too engrossed in either eating, studying, or talking to their friends that nobody seemed to notice that he was there, and Sherlock was left alone long enough to grab a few light things to eat before heading to a table in the back corner that he thankfully had to himself. Sherlock pulled out one of his textbooks, hoping to read the next few lessons while he ate, but then his hopes were thoroughly dashed when somebody plopped down into the seat beside him and Sherlock sighed a little, knowing that once again he’d have to deal with everybody being angry at him one way or another.

“Hey freak,” sneered the boy next to him and Sherlock looked over to see Anderson, one of the rudest boys in his year, sitting right there beside him, smirking at him with a superiority he had no real right to claim. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while. What, you get scared and run off to hide in your room?” Anderson continued, still just snickering as if he found himself hysterical, which he probably did now that Sherlock thought about it.

 “Absolutely not, there is nothing frightening about you or your friends. Except perhaps your lack of intelligence as we are the upcoming generation and that’s rather terrifying,” Sherlock said coolly, using his typical defence mechanism of cynicism and criticism in the hopes that Anderson would just leave him alone. No such luck.

“Ooh ouch,” Anderson replied sarcastically, his voice practically oozing with his disdain for Sherlock. “You know, you’ve yet to show me that you’re more intelligent than the rest of us. You may have everyone else fooled but I know that your little parlour trick is just that – a trick. You hear gossip, you listen in on conversations like the creepy stalker you are. You can’t actually just figure things out about people just by looking at them, admit it.”

“It is the first line of defence of the moronic to accuse the intelligent of being false,” Sherlock replied immediately. “The stupid refuse to accept the things they don’t understand. And you, Anderson, are a sterling example of such idiocy.” Sherlock just rolled his eyes as Anderson scoffed beside him and shifted closer, but Sherlock didn’t wait to hear whatever unintelligent comment he had to make next. “How’s Sally Donovan this morning?” Sherlock asked coolly, using the information he’d gleaned from his quick glance at Anderson a few moments before to mount some sort of defence against the arrows of stupidity being hurled at him.

“I…what?” Anderson stammered and Sherlock just shot the other man a look that was clearly and openly disdainful.

“Sally Donovan,” Sherlock repeated, speaking just a little more slowly than normal simply to add a bit of an insult to the continuation of his observation. “I’m sure you’re well aware of the name of the woman whose room you spent the night in,” Sherlock continued, watching Anderson’s flabbergasted expression with the smallest hint of proud satisfaction. “Does your girlfriend know that you spend the night with other women?” Sherlock asked curiously, though judging by the faint hint of guilt in Anderson’s expression he was sure he already knew the answer. Anderson spluttered and floundered for a response for a moment before his expression was taken over by anger.

“Oi didn’t anybody tell you that it’s rude to spy on people? Who the hell told you that I was with Sally last night, which isn’t even true?!” Anderson asked harshly and Sherlock just rolled his eyes again.

“Your clothes told me, don’t be so utterly brainless,” Sherlock scoffed and Anderson spluttered again though Sherlock didn’t give him a chance to formulate a response.

“Not only are they the same clothes that you were wearing yesterday, as clearly defined by the amount of creasing and wrinkles that imply they spent the night on the floor, not in a dirty clothes bin, but they also smell curiously like a feminine perfume, something floral that could hardly be mistaken for a typically masculine scent, though there is also a hint of cologne under the lighter, more feminine fragrance. And while I do have some question about you, I can’t imagine that you would voluntarily wear such feminine perfume when you are also perfectly capable of wearing men’s cologne. Your deodorant told me of your late night habits as well as it is just as feminine as the fragrance clinging to the fabric of your clothing, and I can only assume that you are wearing women’s deodorant for the sole reason that there were no other options as I’m sure you’re perfectly aware that it is, by far, not strong enough to cover up your rather…distinct odour. Nobody had to tell me where you were last night as you told me yourself.”

It was only once Sherlock had stopped talking that he saw the look of fury on Anderson’s face, and by then it was too late to dodge the blow to the side of his head that made his ear ring. Sherlock blinked a few times and worked his jaw as Anderson stood up and stormed off without saying another word, but Sherlock felt far from triumphant as he saw that the people around him who had seen the cuff to his ear were just either snickering or laughing outright. Sherlock felt heat creeping up his neck and he ducked his head back to his book, tangling his hands together in his lap tightly as he swallowed convulsively and tried to start reading again.

That was how it always went. Sherlock would be teased, he’d prove himself as being clever again and again because nobody seemed to believe that he was, and then he’d go too far in his deductions and the other person would respond either violently or at least rudely. Sherlock figured that he sort of deserved some of the blows he received as he was fairly sure that he violated societal niceties sometimes as he was busy deducing things about people, but at the same time he really was just doing what people asked of him so why should he be hit?

In his more positive moments, Sherlock told himself that he didn’t need to change, that it was everybody else’s fault that they just couldn’t understand the brilliance in his deductions, that he was alright as a person and that everybody else was wrong when they called him a freak or a fag or whatever new nickname somebody had decided to call him. After all, he couldn’t make people happy all the time, right?

Other times, however, Sherlock hated himself and he hated the rest of the world as well as he figured he could never be accepted and that it was a mixture of the world hating him as well as him just being a freak like everybody said, undeserving of acceptance or appreciation, no matter how clever he was. And it was these thoughts that he was always more inclined to believe. The negative things are always easier to believe as they hit home with the darkest thoughts, and though Sherlock could recognise this he was never inclined to do anything about it.

Sherlock sighed a little and readjusted a little in his seat, turning the page of his textbook and focusing his thoughts on the simple, linear equations that always made sense no matter what, that followed set laws that were obeyed by every mathematical equation, not like the rules of society that nobody followed exactly and that were never straightforward. Perhaps that was why he was so bad at socialising, is because his mind just worked completely differently from everybody else’s. His mind was math, facts and equations, linear thoughts that made logical sense, with just enough creativity for him to create situations from the things he observed. As far as Sherlock knew, nobody around him thought exactly as he did, or if they did then nobody had stepped forward to offer him any sort of companionship. Though Sherlock was far from the ideal friend, perhaps it was better in the long run that he’d been alone for his entire life.

Other people were…unfathomable. They were wellsprings of potential knowledge that chose to ignore the possibilities of what their minds could do in favour of memorising petty trivia, names, fashions, the list just went on and on, and nothing on the list seemed to be of long-term use. It was utterly ridiculous what people both of his generation, the students at university who were supposed to be preparing to go out into the rest of the world and be productive adults, as well as the adults who were already supposed to be making a positive difference in the world they all lived in and who instead spent their time sleeping with people and creating scandals, working in offices for their entire lives and never imagining that there might just be something else out there besides cubicle walls and meaningless paperwork.

Had Sherlock been even more of a pessimist than he already was, it would terrify him that nobody around him seemed to care about the higher aspects of intelligence, that everybody seemed to be content with never knowing more than what they could memorise from their professors’ lectures. It was boggling, really, that nobody thought about reaching those higher levels that were more than memorisation, that were practical applications, using the knowledge gained to create a fabric of understanding. Nobody seemed to care about it but him, and it was honestly just disappointing in his mind, not necessarily as frightening as it should be.

Sherlock rubbed a hand absently at his ear, forcing himself not to worry about the slightly muffled sound reception he was getting from that side as well as the faint ringing sound in his ear – Anderson couldn’t possibly have hit him hard enough to do any sort of real damage, it was just a little bit of an aftershock of the pressure, he’d be alright. Sherlock could hear the people around him going back to their own conversations and he was aware enough of social norms to know that it was customary to ask after someone’s health when they’d been struck, but nobody asked Sherlock if he was alright, if he was even in pain at all. He was left alone, and Sherlock figured that it was probably better that way as human contact was foreign to him now after years of isolation that he was fairly sure was at least partially self-imposed.

Sherlock didn’t stir as somebody else sat down beside him a few minutes later, instead he just continued to stare obstinately at his book, hoping that whoever had sat down next to him would just get bored and leave him alone.

“So, Sher,” the man beside him said and Sherlock sighed silently to himself.

“Sebastian. What do you want?” he greeted coldly but calmly, the smug man beside him chuckling for some reason even though Sherlock had done nothing but say his name.

“Heard about what you said to Anderson,” Sebastian continued as though Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever learned how to be decent, have you?” he asked and Sherlock didn’t answer as he got the feeling that the question was meant to be rhetorical. “You know, I hope you realise that nobody here likes you because of that shit you pull with everybody.”

“As a matter of fact, I have been well informed of the feelings of those around me, yes, which is why I fail to see why you have voluntarily elected to come and speak to me when I have so clearly indicated through focused reading that I would prefer to be alone.” Sherlock sighed heavily as the man beside him just laughed derisively and shifted a little closer to him, leaving Sherlock feeling uncomfortable and overcrowded.

“Listen to me, Sherlock. We hate you.” Sherlock felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck at the blunt statement, an annoying wave of emotion rolling through his typically emotionless mind at the surprisingly strong visceral reaction he had to hearing so plainly that he was hated. Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably and shifted in his seat, pursing his lips just a little bit and staring hard at his book, though it seemed like Sebastian was waiting for a reply.

“Thank you for your input, Sebastian, but I am aware of how everybody feels.” Sherlock suddenly felt stifled, surrounded by far too many people, all hating him, all ready to turn on him at a moment’s notice. He needed out.

Sherlock suddenly snapped his book shut and shoved it into his backpack, standing up abruptly and slinging the bag over his shoulder, walking away from the table as quickly as he could without seeming like he was fleeing, though it was hard to not just start running. Sherlock could hear a couple of people laughing behind him and he didn’t care if they were laughing at him or not, because he certainly felt as if they were, and by the time he got out of the building he was having a difficult time figuring out just exactly was going through his mind.

Sherlock’s feet pounded the pavement as he walked quickly toward one of the nearest buildings, his breathing harsh in his ears, and Sherlock could easily recognise the signs of one of the annoying (terrifying) panic attacks from when he’d been a child, forced to conform to a family life he didn’t want. Sherlock hadn’t had one in a while as he’d grown up and learned his own way to deal with the negative emotions he experienced on a day to day basis, but he still knew exactly what it felt like, and Sherlock was well aware that it was because of the animosity aimed at him from what seemed to be every person on the university campus, a place where he was literally completely on his own. As a child, he could hide behind Mycroft who had used to try to protect him from their parents’ disapproval if he was in the right mood for it, but now Sherlock didn’t have anybody to protect him, he was on his own, and he couldn’t help but feel that he could actually be in physical danger if things got bad enough, which he figured they very well could.

When Sherlock broke down, it was silently, his back pressed flush against the back of one of the class buildings, facing a bit of the campus where nobody ever went, and he stood there shaking, teeth chattering, for almost an hour, his mind attacking his body and creating a threat where there wasn’t one. It was terrible, but Sherlock had never known how to stop them properly as a child and he couldn’t stop it now, so instead he pressed himself flat against the cold, rough bricks of the old building and waited.

When the spell finally passed, Sherlock was utterly and completely exhausted, his hands and knees trembling with exertion as he felt like he’d just been running for a solid hour, his body practically vibrating with exhaustion where before it had been wracked with tremors from pent up anxiety. Sherlock crumpled to the ground and he searched his brain for a solution to his problems, his conscious thoughts a sieve net, skimming through his considerable knowledge for something, _anything_ , he could do to fix himself. He finally alighted on an idea, and he instantly pulled out his mobile to start doing research.

He would continue to research for the follow two weeks before finally arriving at his destination.

**Author's Note:**

> So again the fic is based on the lyrics from 'Paranoia in B Major' by the Avett Brothers, and the song at least is totally worth a listen, especially if you're going to be reading all the way through the fic, though I highly recommend listening to more of the Avett Brothers' stuff if they're the kind of music you like  
> But I digress. In case you're wondering, the majority of the chapters are actually going to be set where John and Sherlock are at the show-age, not at university, so if you're not a fan of AU's then just hang in there, most of the chapters are normal :) So anyway, comments are always appreciated, especially if you've got something constructive to say, so don't forget to leave a comment, give me kudos, do whatever, I love feedback :)  
> Thanks for reading!


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